Genesis
by soft2smooth2000
Summary: BEING REVISED. Archangel. Macleod has disappeared leaving a grief-stricken Joe. Methos is plagued by a foray of night-spectres. Is it linked to his forgotten years, prior to his 1st Quickening, and the Millennial Challenge?
1. Author's Note

MsSs

A humongous thank you to **elistaire** for being the first person ever to hear of my crazy idea of a fic in the first place, and encouraging me anyway. And also **mysticdreamer32**— thank you soooo much for taking the time out of your busy schedule to read my work.... your support gave me the courage to post this. I'm only sorry I'm not delivering as often as I'd like! :)

**WIP**(definition): A yet incomplete artistic, theatrical, musical or *literal* piece of work, often made available for public viewing or listening.

~ **translation/warning**: writing doesn't come naturally to me, and English isn't my first language... So folks, submitted chapters or not- this is very much a **_Work In Progress_**.

If you are WIP-phobic like myself, and would prefer to read the final product, more power to you. Otherwise, I apologise, but there is a good chance that you will have to suffer my undisciplined writing.

Fandom: Highlander: The series  
Pairing: pre-slash Duncan/Methos  
Wordcount: ?  
Beta read: no. help pretty please?

**currently very Methos-centric**

**Genesis**: Post-Archangel/Ahriman, Macleod has disappeared leaving a grief-stricken Joe. Watchers are in shock over the highlander beheading his own Student. Is it another Dark Quickening? Whilst the highlander has fled to South Asia-- Methos is plagued by more than his habitual foray of night-spectres... something is troubling the Old Man. Is it linked to his forgotten years, prior to his first head? How is it related to an ancient Millennial Challenge?

a/n: for more information if curious venture to my livejournal. Mistakes are all mine. I'm sorry, but updates will probably be sporadic despite both MsSs and Libra being beloved projects. Characters not mine. No infringement intended, no profit derived.

enjoy, and let me know -positives/negatives- what you think! ^_^

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	2. Prologue

Fandom: Highlander: The series  
Pairing: pre-slash Duncan/Methos  
Wordcount: 257  
Beta read: no. help pretty please?

**currently very Methos-centric**

**Prologue ~ Genesis**: Post-Archangel/Ahriman, Macleod has disappeared leaving a grief-stricken Joe. Watchers are in shock over the highlander beheading his own Student. Is it another Dark Quickening? Whilst the highlander has fled to South Asia-- Methos is plagued by more than his habitual foray of night-spectres… something is troubling the Old Man. Is it linked to his forgotten years, prior to his first head? How is it related to an ancient Millennial Challenge?

a/n: for more information if curious venture to my livejournal. Mistakes are all mine. I'm sorry, but updates will probably be sporadic despite both MsSs and Libra being beloved projects. Characters not mine. No infringement intended, no profit derived.

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**Prologue:**

_**:Seacouver immediately post Archangel: **_

_The highlander's face, anguished and beseeching as he held out his katana--_

"_No. Absolutely not."_

Supporting Joe as the mortal broke down on his shoulder, Methos watched the younger immortal stagger away, sobbing. _Oh Mac._ The ancient felt every one of his weary five millennia. Events had culminated so swiftly. One moment they had been on the barge talking to Mac --next moment the Highlander took off, thrusting the phone at Joe, urging him tersely to keep Ryan on the phone.

Grabbing Joe firmly about his shoulders, Methos lead the still weeping bluesman outside as his thoughts race ahead. They'd need to get Richie out of there before watchers -or Paris' own _les flics _- got to the scene. It'd be up to him, Joe was certainly not in any state to help; and Mac had fled, his sanity unravelling in threads… horror stricken and utterly broken by an apparent demonic force that had blinded him to committing an act, an act of unforgivable atrocity by the honourable Scots' moral code.

Situating the other man in his Rover the older immortal took a moment to gather his wits before opening the trunk. Lean fingers ran over his brow briefly whilst he opened the back of the car. Methos noted distantly that he was trembling. Well. That would be shock then. Not a particularly common occurrence nowadays. Tightening fingers around car keys so that they dug into his palm painfully Methos inhaled sharply before straightening his shoulders-- he had to see to Ryan.

_**tbc**_

_**.....  
**_


	3. Chapter:1

MsSs

Fandom: Highlander: The series  
Pairing: pre-slash Duncan/Methos  
Wordcount: 6869  
Beta read: no. help pretty please?

**currently very Methos-centric**

**Genesis**: Post-Archangel/Ahriman, Macleod has disappeared leaving a grief-stricken Joe. Watchers are in shock over the highlander beheading his own Student. Is it another Dark Quickening? Whilst the highlander has fled to South Asia-- Methos is plagued by more than his habitual foray of night-spectres… something is troubling the Old Man. Is it linked to his forgotten years, prior to his first head? How is it related to an ancient Millennial Challenge?

a/n: for more information if curious venture to my livejournal. Mistakes are all mine. I'm sorry, but updates will probably be sporadic despite both MsSs and Libra being beloved projects. Characters not mine. No infringement intended, no profit derived.

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**Chapter 1:**

_***Early August, post- Archangel***_

***

_Heathrow, London. _

At Terminal 4, Gate E lounge seated a certain old immortal, a curiously introspective look on his face. Habitually slouched, long corduroy covered legs were carelessly propping sodden trainers on the nearby low table. _The Times, Observer_ and tabloid darling _Sun_ resting under trainers were all turning muddy; soaked with late summer downpour.

Of course it was raining. The hustle and bustle of Heathrow airport's terminal 4 droned into the peripheral of Methos' conscious as the monotone female voice announced for boarding flights including one 765, airbus final destination to Colombo, Sri Lanka. From then on he'd take the ferry to the south coast of India- Kerala, before making way to his beloved Himalayas via a long train journey towards the South-eastern border of Kashmir.

The last couple of months spent in England had been-- Interesting. Methos exhaled. To put it mildly. Illuminating -- been months leading to a culmination of self-revelations; revelations that had started since that thrice accursed Ahriman_,_ prophecy and damn millennium challenge had decided to shove itself down their collective throats.

But perhaps, perhaps, the cracks, the self-realisations had started appearing when he'd taken his Brothers quickenings in Bordeaux? Maybe even before then.

_Demon_.

Gods-- give him *vampyres* and they'd have been home free… at least the last time he'd had an encounter --late fifteen hundreds wasn't it? (Both had been trying to keep a low profile due to the witch-hunts and upheaval caused by the Reformation)—

At least with an encounter with one of their immortal cousins --one of the so called _Undead_-- both parties had parted ways without incident. Much.

"_Millennium theory is nothing new, Richie. Every thousand years I hear these same stories. I don't know. I've never seen a demon."_

_I've never…_ Famous last words.

All his long, unnatural life there'd been certain universal patterns, rhythms- predictable in their repetitiveness; relied upon. Truths that he knew of himself, ways of the world he understood. Adding this new element into his shifting, yet mostly consistent mosaic psyche was akin to free falling and no safety net in sight.

He'd normally retreat elsewhere, maybe Nepal- whenever life threw its uninvited curves at him-- lost himself in mountains decades at a time. And so this time too, after the futile search for the missing Highlander he'd prepared to head towards Kathmandu… Only to be confronted with a picture in the Watcher database just before leaving, that had him investigating resurfacing rumours alluding to the continued existence to an Old, long believed perished, friend.

The possibility had been irresistible, and the potential gain had his suspicions proven true too great to not pursue. So he'd left a grieving Joe in Paris, picked up trail up to northern Wales, backtracked to the Berkshires and finally down to the sea coast of Brighton.

Why his old comrade had chosen *there* of all places to re-enter the immortal community, he was at a loss. But he'd found her --or more aptly she'd let herself be found-- and asked her whether the offer of centauries gone by was still viable. Whether his missing years, the years prior to taking his first Quickening, ones he'd assiduously avoided –nay, barricaded himself against, could be unravelled.

Methos was a pragmatist. Survivor. Had an unerring ability to continually remould himself and emerge with minimal self-carnage.

But.

What an unravelling it had been. It had taken him weeks, countless weeks blurring into the past few months of denial, disbelief and other plethora of emotions to recover from all he'd forgotten. Was still coming to terms with it. Likely would take more months of continuous internalisation before he'd even be able to realise the scope to which his foundations had splintered.

Oh, the painful irony.

It seemed that his life and sense of self, however reluctantly, was undergoing fundamental changes _yet again_. Methos grimaced ruefully. He could count in one hand the number of times such changes had heralded a metamorphosis of similar magnitude: the first had been when he'd woken in the middle of the Sinai dessert with little memory of himself. The second-- falling in love, and 'fathering' Mira. The last had been his grievous and violent immortal adolescence of becoming Death and reclaiming himself nearly one millennia later.

_Hmm… maybe more than that, really_. The old immortal acknowledged silently. After all, meeting Emrys (or *Felix*, as the old coot had preferred to being addressed as), and the time he'd spent in Old north welsh England had been unequivocally life-defining too. Nevertheless.

He _remembered_. He could remember his mortal years. And more.

When Methos told the highlander he didn't remember much anything prior to his first head he hadn't been deliberately misinforming- in fact was one of the very rare times he'd spoken the untarnished truth pertaining his past. It was as if they- the memories- had been barricaded behind a never-ending mental wall. Utterly inaccessible.

Oh there had been fragments- kaleidoscopic memories of belonging to a tribe in the mountains of northern Sumer, some immortals he'd met, flashes of continually changing seasons and migration following game during his mortal years… and, though he'd never tell Joe-- the strange notion of being brought up amidst a _particularly_ matriarchal female goat he'd followed around as a wee babe.

Occasionally, and especially after assimilating some of the more volatile, old quickenings --most recently being Kronos and Slias-- he'd awake to sobs strangling his breath, pierced with a sense of desolateness, of sheer _terror _thrumming through his being. Long honed instincts had forewarned him not to stir that particular hornet's nest. So he'd never attempted to consciously remove that mental block. Probed at it, yes. Dug at the barrier half-heartedly. But never in earnest effort.

Immortals who had lived long enough- and himself in particular, were no strangers to nightmares. Regrets. But these seemed to come from Before, felt so _young _that every time he'd tried to make an attempt to recovering any of it was akin to stabbing at an unguarded, particularly visceral wound and something --his sense of self-preservation most likely-- stopped him from doing so.

Not that he'd not had offers to help 'unravel' his past, gain some measure of perspective, not that he hadn't sometimes wondered… but mostly had preferred to live the decree of 'ignorance is bliss' and left his spectres of past gone, well enough alone.

If only he'd known then what he knew now. The knowledge left him strangely stripped bare, naked and vulnerable, younger than he'd felt in years. His own personal Apocalypse. No doubt had the Highlander not faced that accursed millennium piece of manure he'd have happily kept it all submerged in his subconscious.

"_What if he's not seeing things? What if all this stuff is for real?"_

"_O__h come on Richie! y__ou're talking about demons running around. Dead people walking."_

"_Why not, *you're* still around aren't you??"_

He'd been so sceptical, he- who knew more than most the peculiarities that dwelt, mingled- entangled in this world… As he'd mentioned to Joe and Richie before, there *had* been stories-- similar ones that cropped up each millennia or so… but curiously, he'd always dismissed the possibility out of hand. Had shied away from. Even during his much younger, pre-adolescent immortal years he'd never considered it; even at times where beliefs of deities, of *demons* being powerful and cruel, taking pleasure in playing with mortal livelihoods were part of daily life-- coincidence? Unlikely so.

He knew how entwined and interconnected immortals were to physical energies that webbed across four corners of the world; Holy Ground was saturated with ley lines. Quickenings interacted with magnetic fields- made or pre-existing-- not fighting on Holy Ground wasn't purely dependent on some mythical set of Rules to the Immortal Game; Babylon and Pompeii were proof enough-- hell, ask any paranormal scientist lucky enough to get any readings from post-quickening!

But he's ignored all that, –him whom prided himself on the logical and analytical intellect he'd gained at the feet of Helena's Finest philosophers, at being able to approach any situation with reasonable facsimile of detachment and objectivity– and because of this cowardice, Ryan was dead.

The Highlander tricked by a millennial menace into killing his Student – a perverse inverted parallel where five thousand years ago he, Methos, had killed his Teacher. Mother.

The sacrilege. Death on a horse being an ex-millenium Champion. _Brother, you must be laughing in hell._ Not that he'd been Death then-- no, he'd been even younger than the Highlander was now when he'd encountered his demon.

Gods.

Of course it wasn't Ahriman then, no; Methos' personal hell had been in the form of _Lil-itu_ --the female storm demon; an entity feared for her storms, desert, disease- who preyed on women and children, lead men astray-- unlike Ahriman, Lilitu was not an unknown… people believed in her existence, a dramatic reversal of Ahriman's presence.

Not that proclaiming to all and sundry of a mythical millennial demon would have been all that wise in the 20th centuary-- let alone getting anyone to *believe* it… straight jacket fetish anyone? -- something that Ahriman had taken insidious advantage of.

The old immortal sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes tiredly. Christ but he was getting fed up of living inside his head. His mind felt like the aftermath of a Category Five Storm these days. Messy.

Shifting restlessly in the stiff uncomfortable seat, Methos glanced around the airport lounge before narrowing his eyes down to a nondescript old man reading the _Times_ industriously. His voyeur-radar pinged. _Watcher._

Shifting his upper body towards the other man Methos decided on and abandoned any attempt at subtlety, and studied the seemingly unaware man intently. Well. No matter. He'd expected that they'd have lookouts at the airport. Methos had taken precautionary measures.

As he continued staring at the other man across the shiny linoleum floor Methos wondered with a curled mouth whether the other had caught him acting 'un-Adam Piersonish'. Hmm. _C'mon then, look up._

The old mortal glanced casually to the right and across towards Methos before bumping gazes with him. A slight widening of his eyes preluded to ducking behind his paper and trying to nonchalantly ease the grip he had on either side of his _Times_ . _Amateur._ Methos smirked gleefully.

Idiots. _Can't they remember I'm an ex-watcher?_ Never mind being a researcher, Pierson still trained in the Academy with the rest of them-- and other man's apparel… how more clichéd could one get?

Not that one could assume that there was only one watcher in the vicinity. It didn't do to get overly confident and complacent, Methos reminded himself chidingly. Being over-confident and complacent was what had got him into this mess in the first place. Not regaining watcher-eyes on him, although yes that too-- but more the fact of his refusing to support Mac in his time of need, and the tragedy that led to *his* past revealed all coming too late to help.

Not that he hadn't researched with Joe. He had. Lack of faith in the Highlander had been his primary sin-- though the somewhat uneasy, tentative stage at re-establishing their previous relationship they'd been probably hadn't helped any.

After regaining the first three hundred so years of his life, and all that entailed, Methos had researched on Lil-itu; --although access to watcher archives would definitely have facilitated the search-- several sources referred to 'Lilith', and claimed to have credible evidence of *some* form her existence. However in typical fashion, it was a jumble of half-truths and speculation, of different individuals or timelines; Akkadian sources were vastly different to Assyrian ones, which contradicted with the Old Babylonian texts and so on.

But still. Methos was five thousand plus living proof that the bitch had existed.

Not that he'd had a clear understanding of what they were dealing with at the time. The old immortal priest that he and his _Amma_ met whilst travelling, on the way to Memphis for the first time had intoned to great depth about _Anon_-- and how Methos would be tested, and must prove worthy or darkness would befall all their lands; that those of whom the gods blessed with immortal afterlife were to be the Champions, Guardians who had to pass a test of devotion.

The priest, Hapu, then went on to contradict himself, whispering that his travels in Sumer led him to wondering that it would be their native Sumer demon, Lil-itu who would be the Bringer of Destruction, Anon forgive his lack of faith.

Mother and son whom had been travelling as man and mate with a group of traders for safety had thought the other immortal deranged, though Methos recalled feeling a thrill of foreboding when Hapu mention the female demon. His _Amma_ had been strangely apathetic of the other's dire predictions-- but Methos had nevertheless found himself learning rituals that the temple priests learnt, and the state of mind practiced to commune with the Gods.

His mother --Nairi her name had been, he remembered with a whisper of regret in his chest, he'd forgotten her completely-- had been an older immortal, and told him that great ice sheets had been melting during her mortal years; which meant that she'd already been several thousand years old when she had him.

She'd only had an ill-defined idea of what an immortal was-- that they lived long and were impossible to kill unless said immortals were decapitated. How she knew that, she never told Methos --she'd been circumspectly closed-mouthed about a number of things-- and neither of them, nor any of the other immortals they'd met over the next centauries made a habit of chopping of their Brethren.

Head hunters had been non-existent, something that he *had* known even without his memories. Not surprising, the closest things to swords had been blades, usually made out of sharpened stone or copper-- and thus not very durable, until bronze production became an integral part of life.

Macleod would never believe that Methos had been a previous Challenger. Not _*him*._ Especially not after Bordeaux. He probably would've believed it whole-heartedly if the immortal had been Darius or of his ilk, but not him.

_Bitter much old man?_ At the time that they'd first met, Duncan had been looking for a link, replacement for the absence of his old mentor in his life. During their very first conversation Mac had been prepared to take the role of protector, guardian, a role that Methos had firmly and candidly rejected.

"_When was the last time you faced anyone?" _

"_Uh, what are we? Sixth of March, uh, around 200 years."_

"_Oh, *that's* good." _

"_Well hey, I may be a bit rusty but I'm still here."_

"_Let's keep it that way. I'll stay close."_

_Wryly "You cannot fight my battles for me, MacLeod."_

The look on the Highlander's face-- it had been almost enough for the older immortal to turn right back around and acquiesce, let the younger place him on a pedestal and settle the boundaries of their friendship.

Methos had not wanted that. He'd unsettled, piqued and needled the Scot. Invaded his way into the other man's life, staked claim over his couch --and on one memorable occasion Mac's bed itself-- as a stray does so with casual possessiveness over its decided owner and home. It made for uncomfortable introspection into the reasons why he'd done so.

_Duncan._ Methos was sure that the younger immortal would be more than capable of defeating Ahriman --he had the necessary mental and physical training-- provided he managed to come to terms with what had happened to Ryan.

It wasn't just because Methos had a hunch that the other would have retreated to south Asia that he was going to India. It wasn't. He was going to see Ama, maybe. And continue to let all his newly recovered memories settle into his psyche. It would be healing. Just what he needed.

He wanted to visit old haunts, touch points with the long abandoned _Seda Mawatha,_ -Silk Road- see old friends and places. Nothing at all to do with a certain immortal Scottish Boy Scout. Nope.

Methos frowned.

"I thought you said that brooding was a Scottish genetic trait?" said a wry voice as its owner settled down next to him, arranging her rain-dampened sari around to satisfaction. Dancing brown eyes so dark they seemed black swept over his face keenly. Turning back in her seat on the concourse she gave him a long side glance.

"It doesn't do to dwell Methos. You just need time to come to terms with what you've remembered. And besides," her mouth quirked meaningfully, "Wouldn't want to terrify the rest of your fellow 'passengers' now would we?"

Both immortals turned around to simultaneously glance at the old man sitting to the far left opposite them. The mortal seemed much more composed this time as he appeared absorbed in one the _Times_ crosswords, though his cheeks had gained a red tinge.

"Hopeless." She murmured fondly. Seeing the other immortal's quirked brow she continued, "I seemed to have acquired him when I met one of us in Brighton… he's a sweetheart, really."

"I see." Methos said derisively. "And it never occurred to you that you should have probably let me know we had a *watcher* on us the _entire time_ I was in Brighton?"

Onyx eyes gleamed merrily "Oh don't worry you paranoid old coot, I'll handle him when its time for you to board."

"I'm more concerned over what the watchers will be thinking when it's reported that 'Adam Pierson' was seen consorting with an unidentified female immortal." Methos sighed resignedly.

"Maybe they'll think you're my Teacher?" his companion observed blithely. "No, they'll either think that you're my Student, that 'Adam' found me through some immortal mind-whammie; or that we're two poor new immortals, without a friend in the world, banding together in abject misery."

"Mind whammie? Where do you come up with these things? And no for your information while the second is the most likely, the board of Directors, and Dr Zoll in particular aren't going to buy into any of that." Methos returned with a bite entering his tone. "Not to mention the fact that while _*Sheba*_ and all her other, even *primary* incarnations are safely buried to obscurity in Watcher-history, the rest of us aren't so lucky."

The original incarnation in question sobered up and squeezed Methos' left arm in apology. "Apologies dearest, I don't mean to make light of your situation. If it's any consolation, providing that Dr Zoll of yours has already arrived to a conclusion as to whom you are, then being spotted with me will only make it easier for them to track me down too."

Methos turned sideways slightly, wrapped one long arm around her chair, and gave her a level look. "As far as the _watchers_ are concerned Kori, Sheba is as much of myth as Methos *was*, and they don't even know that the immortal "Kora" _ever_ _existed_."

The female immortal merely arched a feminine shapely brow with sangfroid. Well. They both knew that she'd had ways unique to her craft to protect her anonymity. Seeing the barbed look fleeting across that face as he opened his mouth to deliver a scathing rejoinder, the old female immortal intervened.

"Well, you cou-"

"Don't interrupt, I've barely started-- you're only mentioned as the 'unidentified female immortal' referred as Ester's Teacher, you realise?" Methos warmed on to tirade.

"And scarcely in context of Meredydd, even then, it was only because that dratted boy didn't know not to pull strange swords out of rocks -- and *no* mention in conjunction of Felix-- not to mention being Teacher of how many other immortals I don't kno--"

"Alright! Merlin give! You're absolutely, utterly right. Satisfied you ornery bastard?" Saba, by birth known as Kora, glared at Methos in exasperation.

Methos merely stopped and gave an irritable shrug, looked down to study his ticket and boarding pass before looking at her with a repressed glint in his eye. "Hardly."

Kori huffed out a breath before using the tail end --the _pota--_ of her sari to swat the other immortal reprovingly.

Arriving at an semi-acceptable ceasefire, both immortals settled back down in their respective seats.

"What time is your plane again?"

"We arrived a bit early." the male immortal shrugged indifferently. "What are you going to do after I've gone?" Methos inquired with a raised brow.

Kori gave him a bland look, mouth twisting slightly as she gripped her forearms together. "Why would I do anything? I'm hardly going to become a nonentity after all the careful planning I've put into carefully reveal myself in the first place."

"In a neo-hippie shop in Brighton?" questioned the other immortal, hazel eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"_Moondust_ isn't really just a NewAge shop, as you well know." Kori gave a ladylike sniff. "Its part of BISC and the Global Café… and Brighton is hardly the only place that has an International Solidarity Centre, Reading does too, and I know for a fact that you've been there while looking for me." She smiled indolently.

Methos huffed out a breath of dry amusement and muttered half-exasperatedly "It's because chances were I'd find you in a bleeding liberal heart haunt, and I was right wasn't I? Up to your usual parlour tricks, wasted on mortals who haven't ever encountered, let alone believe in the Craft…"

"I do Readings too, you know."

Methos snorted. "I know. I was there for the last few months if you'd remember... Is that wise Kori? The attention you'll attract once people realise you're the real thing--"

Kora waved the other away, "Oh, don't worry Methos, I'll be quite select to whom, and how I give readings to, but I truly believe that it's time that the Arts- what is left of them, should be gradually re-integrated into society."

"A certain mutual acquaintance of ours would likely disagree with you" Methos murmured noncommittally.

The female immortal sighed. "Cassandra has always had the tendency to cling to the past, and until she learns that it is imperative for her to adapt, forgive and move beyond all that was, no matter her being my most talented Student, she'll still suffer-- and certain gifts, potentials, she may never realise."

Methos was silent. They'd had many a discussion on Cassandra, and the Horseman over the last two and a half millennia. He knew how she felt, what was forgiven and accepted, and what was not hers to do so. And she knew the complex set of emotions he held for her Student, duty mingled with regret, entwined in chains of affection and guilt.

"That's what started this all, you know. Bordeaux, I mean."

Kora tilted her head to the side. "Do tell."

Methos merely gave her a sharp glance, that was softened by the upwards curl of his mouth.

"Don't even try to pull that innocent act on me. I know that you're just too nosy not to have poked your head in _mine_ where it doesn't belong long enough to find out _exactly_ what happened."

Methos stalled any forthcoming talk form that angle by nodding towards their faithful watcher. "What I meant was how the Society, or at least the Directors and the Head involved in the Methos Project seem to suspect the unlikelihood of 'Adam Pierson' being a new immortal"

"Oh?"

"Hmm. I owe Joe Dawson a whole lot of beer tab payments plus cumulative interest for the brilliant piece of obfuscation he pulled off." An affectionate look the other would deny if confronted crossed his face. "It's because of him that I wasn't taken to the Tribunal and was instead, ah, just 'dishonourably discharged'. He's a good friend." Methos picked at his corduroy blindly for moment. "And I left him all alone." He finished quietly.

"Your Bluesman, Yes. He was close to the child, Richie?" Kori asked while scanning her friend closely, noting the other's unreadable countenance. "Methos, you realise that whilst you've come a long way, you must heal yourself before tending to others? We had to literally tear into your mind, and that resulted in overwhelming upheaval of five millennia worth of memories and knowledge. These things take time."

"And if it makes you feel any better-" here one cheek dimpled "-I'm sure that selective disclosure of your beginnings as thanks will be of therapeutic use for you, not to mention a precious gift to your friend."

Methos exhaled through his nose before tipping his head back in supplication. Feeling a gentle touch smoothing his brow made him hum a little in relaxation. It was good to have Kori back. It had been a couple of centauries since they'd last seen each other when word had reached him of her purported demise, and he'd grieved for yet another old friend. It made him glad to know she was alive.

Kori was one of the few, very few select people who lived, that still knew him, warts and all. That they could pick up so after nearly five centauries absence spoke much of their bond; which made him think of Macleod _--oh as if he was ever far from your thoughts, you foolish, foolish old man--_ and what the other immortal would think of Kori. Probably woo her too, Methos decided half peevishly.

It was amusing in a way though. Both Mac and Joe --though the bluesman to a lesser extent-- seemed to be under the slight misapprehension of whom it was he considered his nearest and dearest-- an impression he'd gone to great pain and lengths to cultivate though, Methos reflected wryly.

Not that either were naïve enough to believe that there *weren't* particulars; other people close to him, that he'd call his own. Just like Joe had his family; and Macleod had his extended clan-- a clan that Mac _had_ generously offered membership to.

*His* kin were just living more-- _independent_ lives of their own that didn't often intersect with his at this moment in time. Especially since he'd decided some twenty odd years ago that it was time he'd slither into Watcher Archives to finish checking on Methos' Watcher Chronicles. Not that Joe and Mac weren't important, they were. Extremely important to his emotional well being.

He'd simply deflected and fielded a great many questions from them, because it was less complicated to keep the two worlds separate. Now though, maybe letting lose one or two carefully selected, horded secrets of his wouldn't do any harm surely? He'd have to think about it.

The gentle twanging of bangles and the rustle of Kori's sari made Methos slit his eyes open as the other stood. "I'm just off to get a cup of tea Methos, this waiting is making me feel dull. Like a coffee? And before you even say it, no. No beer."

Methos gave her a lazy look. "Jeez you're a strict woman, don't hurt me. And who said you had to wait around with me? I had to arrive early to Watcher-case the airport, and to arrange some confusion on the subject-matter of 'Adam's' flight." He waved an arm dismissively "Feel free to totter off to your NewAge thrift shop, I'm sure you can't afford to lose any capital."

"I'm hurt." she returned with amusement. "And no I can't leave until you do, I did promise to take care of my Watcher for you didn't I?" she gave said mortal an assessing look. "The poor man must be dying to stretch his legs. Maybe you should wander off to the toilet so he can get some exercise, yes? And I'll even throw a muffin to seal the deal." Giving her body a subtle feline stretch, she headed towards the shops and boutiques with intent.

Admiring the departing view contemplatively, Methos threw a glance at Kori's watcher and conceded that maybe going to the bathroom might not be such a bad idea after all.

*********************

After having a caffeine jolt to the system, with half a blueberry muffin to rejuvenate him, Methos checked the time again to see how much waiting time was left. Just little over half an hour.

"You still haven't decided about what you're going to do with your Watcher Society, no?"

Methos dragged himself away from mentally going through the journey he'd mapped out once he got to Sri Lanka. "huh?"

"I asked whether you've decided on what it is that you're going to do with your watcher society." Kori regarded him patiently.

Methos looked at the other immortal warily. "You're not suggesting that _*I*_ do something about it, are you? Because the days that I might have used a chalice or staff for *_anything*,_ never mind influencing someone's memory, are long gone."

The other immortal stared at him silently for one long moment. She shook her head and took a deep breath. "I know, --and I know this isn't something you'd like to talk about-- but Methos, surely you understand that there wasn't anything that you, I or even *Myrddin* could have done? It wasn't the Arts betraying you-- It was just that Weylin was that much stronger, and we were ill-equipped for his particular brand of malevolence."

"In anycase," she continued determinedly changing the subject from one neither of them wanted to divulge into. "That's *not* what I meant; I was thinking, that what you need is a suitable, cunning, pre-emptive strike at your Watcher organisation."

Methos rubbed long fingers over nose. "You mean I gain an upper hand by choosing a bargaining chip to deal with, namely myself."

"And me"

"_*What?!?*_"

The older immortal gave Kori an incredulous look. _Was the woman mad?_ Methos felt his pulse pick alarmingly. _Surely she knew what such a move would invite?_

Distantly he observed that his responses seemed somewhat out of proportion to a mere *_statement_*. Sweat beaded his forehead and muscles tightened at the perceived threat.

"Shh…. Methos, easy _rath-tharang_ --"

Lowering his voice he muttered gratingly,_ "Are you out of your bloody mind?!"_

"M--"

"You understand what a crazy idea it is? It'd make witch-hunting seem like a fucking *picnic* in comparison. And it wouldn't just be us-- They'd want others… Gabi, Mira, Macleod, Quinn, Sandra, have I missed anyone? Oh lets not forget Isobella- not even Blaise or Joe would be safe!"

Methos was quietly working himself to a state. "And what of the sticky issue of our complicated, _ancient_, -five millennia ancient- _p__asts??_" The last was a sibilant hiss "They'd wring us bloody dry--"

"Methos" Kori said quietly, clamping her left hand over his left wrist. _"Enough."_ A flash of heat streaked from her fingertips and jolted up Methos' arm, making him jerk out of his panicked stupor.

"Easy Methos. Breath. This is why I told you need some time off on your own to heal at you own pace. You're far too vulnerable like this." It would never have happened otherwise, and Kori wondered for a moment whether letting him go on his own was the best thing to do.

"What I was trying to say before, was that once you've found out what your Head Researcher *_does_* know, tell her --as and if necessary-- why the knowledge has to stay in the family so to speak."

"Then, I want you to give her my name and Christ! I can't even begin to think what they'll want to know.... However you choose to deal with it is upto your discretion. I'll leave the matter to your wonderfully devious mind."

Hearing a witch older than the Lord Himself taking said Lords name in vain had Methos chuckling silently, feeling his flushed cheeks recede slightly despite the embarrassment. And felt himself settle, unwind inside. Up and down, up and down. He wasn't sure how much more of this emotional rollercoaster he could take. He'd never have lost it at the mere *mention* of a threat if he'd been himself. Fuck.

Kori was right, he needed time to regroup, and had to trust in the Highlander's capability when it came to Ahriman. And if not, well-- he'd send Joe a note with a few pointers and see how the other immortal was doing.

Thankful that he'd found her, and for her help, Methos squeezed the hands clasped in his. He couldn't have done it without her.

The boarding call for Methos' flight announced itself. Watching as a flurry of humanity almost collectively started to head towards the desk, Methos sniffed before settling down in wait for the crowd to die down.

"People were staring at us you know."

"When exactly? When I was close to hyperventilating for the first time in years because of some crackpot idea of yours, or because you had the audacity to swat me with that sari of yours?"

"They probably thought it was a lover's quarrel…"

"……"

Then, "you wish."

"If Tiat saw us now she'd have both our hides for being such _mattoes_."

A memory of one such occasion when Tiat, indeed had both their hides made Methos break into a patent 'Adam' smile- he even deigned to show off a flash a row of even, white teeth –not a sight one got to see everyday. _He looks so very young._ Kora felt it pull an answering smile in response. Looking down at their hands clasping, she returned a gentle squeeze.

He'd looked this young ever since she'd removed the mental barrier he'd erected, probably as his last defiant defence against Lil-itu. It wasn't as if he'd exactly had the necessary mental training needed, nor the time to assimilate the pain and horror he must've had from taking his mother's head. She could only barely imagine how Methos felt.

Nairi had been special to her, too.

The mechanical pinging brought them out of their mutual contemplation before his flight was announced yet again. Methos looked around to see that the queue for boarding was down to the last few stragglers.

Leaning over to see their Watcher, Methos was only half-surprised to not find the man anywhere. Catching that characteristic twitch of the mouth and beguilingly serene dark eyes he turned towards the Sari clad woman for explanation.

"Methos! I'm ashamed that you'd even think that I'd harm my darling Watcher. I believe he'd thought he'd seen the two of us sneaking out you see, to go elsewhere. The other two followed him somehow seeing the same thing!"

Methos gave her a sardonic look which she circumvented gracefully.

Unfolding his lean frame he picked up his rucksack, swinging one strap over his shoulder. He framed Kori's face between long fingers and tilted her up for an affectionate kiss.

"Hmm. Methos, say hello to Ama for me if you run in to her" Kora gave a slight knowing smile and pulled down his face, bangles clanging. She gave Methos a moist kiss on the forehead with a whispered blessing. "Take the time to sort things out in that wily old attic of yours" his oldest friend gently knuckled the side of his head before giving a slight push. "Go on now, before they decide to leave without you."

Rolling his eyes a little Methos took a few backward steps with his bag thrown over his shoulder, gave the waiting room, the backdrop of the wet, August view and Kori an encompassing glance before turning around to show his boarding pass and walk through to the walkway.

He didn't look back.

******************

_**:Later the same day, Watcher Head quarters, London:**_

Sitting in front of his Supervisor, Roger Bentley was having a bad day. He mopped a handkerchief over his wet forehead and thinning hair, wishing he was home tucked in his chair with his wife's irreplaceable Irish coffee; and definitely dry and warm away from the downpour that seemed to have erupted across the country-- not to mention said displeased, unsympathetic supervisor.

The man sitting across the wide mahogany table --probably courtesy of a long gone immortal-- linked his fingers together, giving little away save for the subzero bearing emanating from him.

"Let me get this straight. You had *two* field agents with you and yet lost new immortal Pierson and the Unidentified female immortal when you'd been *specifically* informed of former Watcher Pierson's propensity for evading his ex-colleagues?" the other man's face tightened.

"Put aside the fact that Pierson isn't our responsibility, --although Christ knows what the Paris and north-western Pacific Branches think their doing, allowing one of their subjects to cross borders without his own agent trailing-- it *was* however your responsibility to ascertain precisely which plane Pierson got on and keep track of his companion female UI."

Roger couldn't prevent the wince that escaped him. He couldn't explain it, really-- Paula and Manaan had both *seen*, the two immortals slip away when the bulletin board displayed and speakers announced boarding for several flights. Once realising that they'd lost their quarry, Roger and the other two agents had split to search for their recalcitrant immortals, only to find that not only had the female subject disappeared without trace, but Pierson didn't appear to have boarded on *any* of the flights booked in his name, nor did careful scrutiny of the security cameras divulge where either of them had escaped to.

It was most peculiar. Not that explaining any of that was going to save his arse. Pity that. He'd so wanted to hang on to a field job until his retirement came. And he'd been doing so well on his crossword today too.

"The North Wales co-ordinator just contacted London saying that if we'd let one of _their_ agents watch the female UI --seeing as they were the ones to identify her as a Possible initially-- we'd not be in hot water from Washington or Paris because they'd have not lost her in the first place." Seeing the sour look on the other man, Roger felt his belly twist. _Damned Watcher politics._ Far from being assigned to Records, it looked like they were going to do away with him altogether.

_And of course they'd keep Paula and Manaan, much more logical to kick out the old man who had only six years max on the payroll,_ Roger thought bitterly. That Vowler would revel in personally giving him the sack didn't make situation any better. Watching Supervisor Vowler lean forward and fold his arms on the table with smugly affected sincerity, Roger straightened his spine. If, after thirty odd years of service he was going down as scapegoat, he was going to do with his self-respect intact. Vowler was speaking;

"--so of course you understand that the Branch, while appreciates the loyalty and ah, _conscientious_ service you've employed we regret--"

And here Vowler stumbled, a confused expression coming over his face. "Uh-- that is to say, seeing your exemplary employment record, we've decided that these were unique circumstances, seeing as you were assigned to an ex-watcher and his companion-- and of no consequence."

Seeing the utter bewilderment on Bentley's face Vowler found himself continuing, "Furthermore, as the female subject has made prior contact with you, bought you coffee and muffin you've reported?-- so, I'll see to it that you act as liaison for North Wales on the matter as it might be the FUI finds you more approachable and won't shy away from." He finished nodding to himself somewhat torpidly.

"We need to find out how much of a security breach she is, and if so inquire into whether Pierson is risking the Organisation by disclosing Watcher existence to immortals; --mind, he may not know differently as his Teacher, supposedly Duncan Macleod?-- is rumoured to have the habit of disclosing to *his* friends, and Pierson might not understand the far reaching consequences." Vowler massaged side of his forehead distractedly.

"Since you work well with Manaan I'll be pairing you together to watch Silvia Armstrong, she's re-situated in Mayfair and will be requiring a chauffer and Majordomo and I expect you both to fill in those places. Understood?" Seeing the other man's hurried yet bemused assent Vowler bit back a disparaging sneer at the other's humility and dismissed him.

After Bentley shut the door behind him Vowler felt a lightening of his forehead that made him feel nauseous momentarily. Groaning softly and lowering his head down to the table he waited for the dizzy spell to pass. Damn head cold. No wonder, since it'd been chucking it down for over a week now.

So much for the last of summer sunshine. Feeling significantly better he picked up the phone and dialled an overseas number.

"Hello Stephanie? Sam Vowler here. Is Matthew in? I need to speak to him about a possible security breech and two potential immortal candidates for the Sanctuary…"

************************

It was on the middle of his way home, on the Circle Line heading towards Victoria, that it finally sank into Roger that he still had his job. And a permanent assignment. To a celebrity immortal. _Hot diggity!_ He was going to become a Majordomo! In a fancy West End household-- wait till he told the wife *_that!_*

_**tbc**_

**********************************************************

A/N:

The 'ancient' words littered throughout this chapter/fic/Story Arc are infact Sinhalese(Sri Lankan);

_**Amma**_: mother

_**Seda Mawatha**_: Silk Road- ancient cross-continental Trading route that spanned all the way from Eastern Europe to China.

_**Pota**_: sari pota- tail end of an sari

_**Rath-tharang**_: an ah, soothing endearment?

_**Mattoes**_: equivalent of indicating when one has been making a spectacle of oneself.

As for Characters OC and otherwise? I'll do my best to clear the air without 'spoilering'! lol.

Mortals/immortals

_**Dr Zoll**_: Head of Methos Project

_**Emrys**_: also known as Felix in my fic. Said to be Darius' holy man(is certainly so according to MsSs). Emrys is the Shaman to his tribe when he becomes Immortal 20,000B.C. (N-"Shadow of Obsession")

_**Ester/Esther**_: one of the earliest recorded immortals, and in my fic is older than Methos.

_**Myrddin/Meredydd**_: Merlin. One of Methos' many teachers.

_**Kora/Kori**_: Sheba-- known as by westerners and in the bible by King Solomon, Saba by Arabs and Makeda by her Ethiopian people.

_**Matthew**_: *The* Matthew Hale from the **Endgame** (dum dum da!!) who decides to go rogue and starts kidnapping/hunting immortals.

_**Anu/Anon**_: The highest god in**Mesopotamian** religions.

OC's

_**Weylin**_: as you can probably tell. Not a very nice immortal. You'll meet him in _**Chrysalis**_ and later on in _**Methos' Scrolls**_.

_**Gabi, Mira, Quinn, Sandra, Isobella, Blaise and Ama**_: I refuse to believe that Methos is completely anchorless and adrift of emotional ties at the time MacLeod meets him. So there. ;p

_**BISC and Global café**_: There actually is a shop/café like back at home in Reading(in this case RISC etc), and I love, love, loveit!


	4. Chapter:2

MsSs

Fandom: Highlander: The series  
Pairing: pre-slash Duncan/Methos  
Wordcount: 3835  
Beta read: no. help pretty please?

**currently very Methos-centric**

**Genesis**: Post-Archangel/Ahriman, Macleod has disappeared leaving a grief-stricken Joe. Watchers are in shock over the highlander beheading his own Student. Is it another Dark Quickening? Whilst the highlander has fled to South Asia-- Methos is plagued by more than his habitual foray of night-spectres… something is troubling the Old Man. Is it linked to his forgotten years, prior to his first head? How is it related to an ancient Millennial Challenge?

a/n: for more information if curious venture to my livejournal. Mistakes are all mine. I'm sorry, but updates will probably be sporadic despite both MsSs and Libra being beloved projects. Characters not mine. No infringement intended, no profit derived.

**************************

**Chapter 2:**

**circa *****3306~ BC***_** :Mountain range north of Akkard: **_

"Mytos!!" came the shrill cry of his _kiriamma_, coming and catching the little boy as he tried to sneak away to pet _Aiiya_ and maybe coax the matronly goat into giving him some of her warm pungent milk. It was starting to get stormy and wet again- and so was high time for the hunting party to come with their spoils before the tribe left this part of the mountains to move onto higher ground.

"Chee chee! Look at you, you little _mati patiya!_" came the older woman's scolding tone. "You want to get thrashed ah? What happens if Sekrak finds you stealing Aiiya's milk again like a greedy _baba_ when you know you shouldn't hmm?" licking her palm the young woman tried to clean his grubby face.

Sekrak, their Elder, was a gruff older man who had many a times dragged young Mytos away from the tribe's goats pen, thrusting him at one of the women after whacking his bottom for being greedy and drinking milk.

Most of the times it so happened that Mytos sincerely *didn't* go to the small enclosure that they had for the goats with intent to steal milk. Usually, he went to pet Aiiya, his favourite, and she was so warm and cuddly with all that lovely _milk_-- and it didn't help that the she-goat seemed have adopted Mytos ever since he was a bebe.

Seeing the fierce scowl on the little face Tiat teasingly tapped him on the nose gently, "_Aiya_, watch that scrunching up that _hote_ of yours doesn't make it grow any bigger, or you'll find you can't lift yourself off the ground for it being too heavy." seeing the look of brief consternation on her charge as he covered said appendage with dirt covered fingers and tentatively shape around it made her cover a smile by brusquely waving over to the skins and half-finished leather that were piled over some wood towards the east of the site.

"Bring them to over here Mytos" his Kiriamma gestured towards where the rest of the skins were being treated.

Mytos went over to bring the skins, almost smothering him due to his size and stumbled a few times before he made his way back to his _Kiriamma_. After dumping them unceremoniously on the ground by the older woman-- and barely escaping the swat dished out in response- he gave the matronly she-goat a yearning look before sighing and skittering away.

*******************

Darkness fell and the site quietened down to slumber, Tiat settled down the some of the youngsters in her care –they were lucky this past _A__wurudda,_ only three families suffered from the flash flooding last season on their the journey back– and went on to send the women off to their mates tent to sleep. The crackling of the flames made her drowsy with the backdrop of the murmuring voices of the men, and she felt her eye lids drooping when Mytos burrowed his bony shoulder into her and settled down beside.

"_Kiriamma_?" a slightly gritty hand clenched into the soft deerskin. "When is _Amma_ going to be back?" he pressed his head tighter to her breast. "We must be moving over the hills before Anu, and Enil decide to celebrate with their storms this season." Thunder rumbled in the distance. "Will she be back before then?" Tiat shushed him and wrapped her arm around comfortingly and frowned.

The gods had not being benign on them recently- the dry seasons were longer, and more arid, the other-- temperamental with a tendency to flash flooding, the sudden rain turning the mountains murky and malignant. She remembered it being much cooler as a child, but the weather had changed so much since then.

Maybe when Nairi came back from the hunt she could go and talk with Sekrak… it was time they followed their sister-tribe and moved south, closer to the Settlements near Kane, or even further down to Mari if the Elders didn't want them to go into Assyrian land. The herds seem to be moving southbound. It was taking the hunting party longer and longer each time to arrive with the spoils.

Not that the long distance they'd have to travel would make it easier to persuade any of their Elders. Anu willing, Nairi and the others will be coming soon.

********************************

Two moon cycles went by with the campsite getting wetter and damper with no sign of the hunting party. It was past time they moved to higher ground. The tribe Elder Sekrak was oft seen on the ground with Kamin the tribe's Shamaness and healer, mumbling over his star drawings while the rest of the camp slowly started dissembling in readying for the trek across the valley that they were all too overdue for.

Mytos was playing with Aiiya when a first holler was heard; followed by a whoop and the traditional greeting call that easily travelled the distance. The whole camp froze in a tableau before a few of the women's screaming and laughing broke it and the site descended into chaos. Mytos wanted to be the first one to see the hunters come back home and scrambled to leave with some of the other older children but was sharply put task by one of the women in the camp.

He was arms deep into squeezing the goat udders to have some milk ready for company when he heard his mother's voice cut through the throng of people arriving to the campsite.

"Mytos? Mytos! Tiat, what have you done with my boy?" her laughing voice made him abandon one of Aiyya's sisters mid yank and run blindly towards the arrivals that he barrelled straight into her.

"Aday! This can't be my boy, surely? _Kobalanna_, let's see you then hmm?" reaching down Nairi swung up her son onto her hip, and looked into wide eyes the same earth colours as her own.

When she had left her babe in the care of Tiat three moons ago he'd thrown a fit because she was the only woman to leave with the hunting party. It had been first time she'd left him since he was an infant. But they had lost one of their men last hunt to a snakebite, and she was the only one with necessary skills who hadn't been too young or old.

Giving the smudged face a smacking kiss, she teasing him about the sticky milk spilt over him in his haste to see her. When she bent to let him down he clung and refused to let go. Kneeling down on the ground with him, she took Mytos' face in both hands and peppered it with affectionate kisses. Then, holding onto him tightly with one arm she lightly tapped at smudgy cheeks.

"Now _patiyo_, it is really important that I speak with Sekrak about when we'll be starting to move. Maktud has yet to pull together his innards and tell the Elders that we will have traders travelling with us." Mytos looked around, and for the first time noticed that there were unfamiliar people walking around.

Traders were no strangers to their tribe. Though they usually passed by instead of setting up camp with them. Mytos vaguely remembered when their tribe had gone to a settlement once too, when he had been much younger.

Some of the arriving travellers were attired in cloth and skins he had *never* seen before- _Appos!_ Some even had hunting paint all over them, Mytos thought in wonder.

"Traders?" Mytos asked looking at the group of strangers that seemed to fill their camp. It was easy to spot them-- for one their breechclouts and shirts were in different colours, or they seem to be wearing different types of apparel. Not to mention that some of them seem to be covered in dark murky hunting paint even though they obviously weren't hunters.

Nairi nodded, giving Mytos a gentle push. "Go on now, finish milking for Nanin like you'd been told. _Amma_ has to go talk with the Elders." Behind her Matktud hovered, making impatient gestures towards his father Sekrak and the others by the main tent.

Giving one last look at his mother, Mytos scurried over to the safety of Aiiya and her patronage of goats to observe the new strangers.

************************

Mytos wiped at his sweaty forehead as he surveyed the camp, perched within the safety of the Creep made to keep the youngling goats away from bucks.

Having visitors at the camp was lots of hard work! After he'd finished milking he'd been sent out with some of the other children to gather even more firewood than they'd already had piled at the corner of the site-- while Chakru and Ennt, two of the older boys had been sent to gather some honey. Mtytos saw Sekrak's mate, Nanin take one of the fowls away from the pen, no doubt to be served in the meal later.

Once they were finished with gathering wood he'd managed to escape before any of the adults dumped more chores on the rest of the children.

The campsite was a hive of activity. The travellers were putting up tents of a sort that looked alien when compared to theirs, and Elder Bono and some of the other adults were busily bartering with the traders for spices, grains, pottery and barley beer in return for furs, herbs, leather skins and types of minerals the tribe collected all year round.

"_Ada…ey, psst! ada...ada!_"

Mytos jumped and tripped over one of Aiiya's daughter's son as he twisted around to look at who it was. There was a small giggle and then a pair of bright black eyes framed by a round brown face peeked at him under from a filthy mop of hair.

"Who are you?" Mytos demanded wrathfully, covering his embarrassment at being caught out in front of this strange child. The other girl? yes girl- he decided, gave a grin before uttering some incomprehensible syllables. Mytos stared. What a strange creature. She too, like some of the older traders, was covered up completely in paint. Why, she was the colour of a _Cathurku_ bark!

The other girl just shook her head and said something else, gesturing with both hands. Mytos warily considered her before proclaiming stoutly "I am Mytos. Who are you?" She tilted her head sideways, and after a moments worth of consideration, leaned over to grab Mytos by the hand, dragging him away from the safety of the pen.

Mytos yelped as he was lead across the site decisively by the chattering girl, until they arrived to the corner where some of the women had congregated to prepare yams, and cuting and shearing of game. He managed to twist his arm out and poked her in the stomach in retaliation- she stuck her tongue out in reply. Mytos was readying to exact suitable vengeance from the little _mitta_ when he saw Tiat descending on them both.

"Aaa there you both are. Mytos, I see you've met Kora here, do you think you can be a _loku Aiya_ and look after her until your _Amma_ or I can see to her?" She asked while manhandling them both towards the children's tent. Mytos gave-- Kora? a distrustful look before twisting his head up to give his _Kiriamma_ a beseeching stare. "Can't one of the _Akkas_ look after her?" he appealed.

Giving Mytos a wry look to show him that it wasn't going to work, Tiat called one of the older girls to come and take her other charge and get her something clean to wear. Afterwards she turned around and gave Mytos a stern look.

"_Baba,_ Kora will be staying with us from now on. She was one of the children of the Eruk traders --remember your Amma talking about Cities, like many villages and settlements put together? Only much bigger with many more people?" seeing his uncomprehending nod she continued "She was travelling with her father when she was but a little babe when they were attacked on the outskirts of Akkad some seasons ago. Her father was defending them when the Ouk-ta tribe ambushed them."

Mytos felt a sliver of fear slice through him. Young as he was, he knew that not all of the mountain tribes and villages got along with each other. It wasn't as if they were actually living in the heartland of Sumer after all. Game, fresh water and land were precious commodities up here in the mountains.

The Ouk-ta's were a tribe from even further up north than theirs, and were known for their cunning, and even literal- cutthroat ways. Recently there were rumours that they had different, strange weapons to terrorize people with. Sharp, wicked long blades, made with Urudu(copper) mixed with Ku(tin), in addition to the spears and bows the rest of them used.

"So now she's going to stay with us." His Kiriamma continued. "The traders don't want the trouble of taking her, not when they can't be assured of safe passage back." Tiat rubbed at her brow. "They're still recovering from the most recent raid."

The Ouk-ta's were getting bolder, striking at the older, larger tribes, and established trade routes. It was another reason why Nairi and Matktud, the son of their tribe's Headman were convincing Elders that moving South away from these parts of the mountains was the right thing to do.

"Kamin has had me busy making poultices and pastes while she treats their wounds." She waved her hand outside towards the east of camp where Kamin, the tribe's healer was busily wrapping something over the thigh of wounded trader. Tiat was learning from the older woman, so that she could be the tribe's healer one day.

Mytos looked over in the tent to see Kora naked, one of the older girls gently teasing her as she was cleaned up with a damp cloth. He supposed that she was harmless enough. And it wasn't as if she needed *his* _Kiriamma_ and _Amma_ was it? "Will she be washing off her paint then?" Mytos asked a bit disappointedly. He'd rather liked it.

"Washing off the….ah, I see." Tiat'ss eyes were dancing in merriment. "That's not paint Mytos." An inquisitive face turned to her. "That's the colour of Kori's skin." Her mouth curved upwards. "I doubt that any amount of scrubbing will get rid of that."

"But-- that's…" Mytos turned back to look at their new tribe member in fascinated bafflement. Tiat bit back a chuckle. "You've noticed that you and your Amma have different skins than ours?" Mytos nodded, being envious ever since he could remember for not having the other children's various darker golden skin tones-- and being stuck with pale milk coloured skin that even when tanned and browned form Anu's rays, still looked different.

"Not every village is the same _kollo_, just as no two tribes are the same. I imagine Kora's _Amma_ and _Thaththa_ had the same skin colour, and so has she." "From what I hear her father was from a far distant land, and not a native to Sumer." There. His natural precociousness would do the rest.

"Well then," giving his mop an affectionate tug Tiat asked, "you will keep an eye on her for me hmm?" and was given a distracted nod of acquiesce. "_Ha_ then, I'll be going to help your mother convince that moving away from this part of the valley is a good thing to that stubborn old Sekrak."

Mytos watched her leave, front of tent flapping with a mixture of confused excitement. He gave the girls finishing off across the tent another look. Peculiar things were afoot. Girls who had bark-coloured skin without being painted, the entire tribe moving out of the valley--why, next they'll find Aiiya of all she-goats refusing to make milk!

All in all, Mytos decided solemnly, things were going to change.

_**Same day, night-time after evening celebrations in one of the women's tents:**_

Nairi took one last peek at her little boy, skinny limbs curled tightly around the tribe's new member, before stepping out, tent door flapping. Tiat had done a good job of settling down the little girl, and after a wary start Mytos had apparently decided that the newcomer was _his_, and showed her off to the other children with the gleeful air of having a tamed a young wildcat.

The tribal Elders were all gathered by the fire, discussing with traders the best route that would take them southbound, away from the mountains and closer to Uruk. Sekrak had grudgingly conceded that migrating would be the best, if they wanted to be safe from the Ouk-ta.

"They're fast asleep I take it?" came the wry voice of Tiat, linking arms and steering Nairi towards the middle of the camp where all the adults were congregated.

The immortal glanced down at the other woman affectionately. "Oh yes, his goat-prince and Kora are wrapped around like limpets, I think both are wiped out with all the excitement today."

"Hmm…"

Sensing her friend had something on her mind, Nairi allowed the other to propel the both away from the menfolk, and to where the rest of the women had gathered, and settled themselves down next to Lanni, the camp's eldest member, as she sat on a log, braiding one of the younger woman's hair.

"Out with it then. I heard what the traders were saying... why are they calling little Kori demon-child? was helping Nanin tend one of the wounded traders when they started yobbering about that little one's Father." Lanin muttered as she tended to twining the dark strands of hair belonging to the youngster sat dozing in front of the fire.

"_Aiii...._" Nairi swore softly. "Those _punai_ travellers don't know what they are talking about." Ignoring the subtle jab coming from Tiat she continued, "That little girl's father saved most of those traders hides from the Ouk-ta's attack that day— if it hadn't been for those sharp blades he'd still be here to tell the tale."

Gnarled wrists rested on thick hair in pause as faded brown eyes flicked towards Nairi before resuming her task. Lanin made a noise at the back of her throat. "_Chukka_,_ Duwa_. Can't but hope the fire storm bolting from the skies chasing the Ouk-ta away was _Anu's_ anger at the blood-mongers, and not at the traders because they were hiding one of _Ereshkigal_'s demon-children from below."

Nairi turned mild eyes towards the noisy flames to think on the offhandedly disguised warning given. If it had been anyone other than Lanin she would have felt threatened. As it was, the immortal knew it was just the older woman's way of letting them know which way the winds were stirring, and how best to protect herself and Mytos- as well as their newest familial addition.

She was worried, not knowing whether it was the right thing to do, taking on another, _special_ child when protecting Mytos from _mortal_ harm until he was the right age was a priority… but what to do? When she'd heard what had happened to the girl's 'Father' and how he had fought to save his beloved daughter -no less than what Nairi herself would have done for Mytos- there was no choice left for her heart to make.

_**~Five and a half days later, en route trekking through mountainous path southbound to Mari~**_

Lush vegetation towered the path taking the procession, winding down their way alongside the riverbanks of _Khabur_. The strange assembly of tribe-kin and traders, normally allies for but a few days every season, had been travelling side by side through the mountains for several days now.

They were passing through no-man's territory, lands that had once belonged to a sister-tribe, forced off by the Ouk-ta. The tribe's warriors were restless, battle ready in the case of enemy attack, and the tribal Watchman and his _Pembara_ were altering between scouting ahead of the travelling group, and keeping company in the rear with the younger _Ranawiru_-pair.

Even the older children were subdued, clutching close to adults as they made their way over leaf-covered, moistened dark earth, shifting tender-weary feet. The traders had been generous, and had offered the younger ones slave-hoisted litters -meant for pots, sacks full spices, and bartered returned goods- so that the journey wouldn't be slowed to the stride of small feet.

A red-eyed Mytos was stubbornly trudging on, skinny brown hand fiercely clutching his _Amma's_. They had let loose several of Aiiya's children- she-goats, and bucks, and slaughtered the rest. The pen had been emptied of fowl and several of the younger children were feeling the loss of their non-human playmates.

Tiat hoisted up the sliding sweaty form of Kora up over her hips as the dozing girl's arms loosened their hold around her neck. Heaving a breath deeply through her nose she leaned to the striding form of her friend.

"She's one of you, isn't she?" she asked out of the corner of her mouth, quirking an eyebrow meaningfully towards the precious cargo in question draped over her back.

The female immortal gave a quick glance at the stubborn set of her babe boy's face before shooting the other woman an amused look.

"I'm surprised that you were able to keep that trap of yours closed this long without bursting, _kellaney_. Especially when I managed to keep Kori as my little _Duwa_ despite the talk about her father."

Tiat snorted out a puff of breath. "_Hapo_, as if I'd say anything when Sekrak and that fool Manoo were deciding on the child's fate? I was just grateful that your hunting skills meant that the Elders weren't prepared to bar you and Mytos from the tribe too." She hesitated then continued as softly, "I didn't know your kind could be killed."

"We can." Nairi replied, thinking of what Emrys had told her many, many seasons ago. "Most of our kind don't even know in the ways that we're vulnerable…" her free arm holding onto a decorated spear tightened minutely. "It's only recently that I have seen weapons far are more able to destroy us, other than by means of accident or as acts of Anu-willing."

"The Ouk-ta?"

"Among others," Nairi agreed. "They're ruthless, and clever – from what the traders say even in the cities people have started using kurudu(bronze), for everything. The Ouk-ta must have learned melding from there."

"The tribe will want to come after us if they know we've got his daughter."

"That's why we're travelling with the traders, safety in numbers Tiat. Now shush, no more of that talk— _chutie_ ears, always listening hm?"

Both women, mortal and immortal fell silent, concentrating on descending the sharp turn the route took- too close to the outcrop of rock mantled by loose soil, framing the backdrop to the ever present sound of rushing water as it sped through a particularly rapid juncture before slowing down and flowing on its way to uppermost reaches of river-branches of eastern _Euphrates_.

_**tbc**_

A/N: all that native-speak here isn't ancient Sumerian of anything exciting… lol. It's the language spoken in Sri-lanka(am srilankan) and some ad-libbing(literary licence!) -I thought that it sounded alien enough!

_Kiriamma_: direct translation- nursing mother. Affectionate term used for surrogate maternal figure.

_mati patiya_: silly git. Only, meant affectionately.

_Baba_: baby

_Hote_: beak- in this case, referring to Mytos' nose.

_A__wurudda_: year

_Amma_: mother

_Kobalanna_: let me see you then

_Patiyo_: affectionate term.

_Cathurku: dark brown_

_Mitta_: chit (of a girl)

_loku Aiya_: older brother/older boy

_Akkas_: older sisters/older girls

_Kollo_: boyo!

_Thaththa_: father

_Punai_: ah a slur. Stupid? Asshole? Can't think of equivalent

_Ranawiru_-pair: Guardian-pair. Reference to The Sentinel.

_Pembara_: direct translation- romantic endearment(I couldn't resist). Guide/Companion. Reference to The Sentinel.

_Kellaney_: gal, woman

_chutie_ ears: little ears

Anu: God of skies/heaven- also highest god

Enil: god of earth and air.

_Ereshkigal_: also known as Irkalla. Goddess of the Underworld/land of dead.


	5. Chapter:3

MsSs

Fandom: Highlander: The series  
Pairing: pre-slash Duncan/Methos  
Wordcount: 3927  
Beta read: no. help pretty please?

**currently very Methos-centric**

**Genesis**: Post-Archangel/Ahriman, Macleod has disappeared leaving a grief-stricken Joe. Watchers are in shock over the highlander beheading his own Student. Is it another Dark Quickening? Whilst the highlander has fled to South Asia-- Methos is plagued by more than his habitual foray of night-spectres… something is troubling the Old Man. Is it linked to his forgotten years, prior to his first head? How is it related to an ancient Millennial Challenge?

a/n: for more information if curious venture to my livejournal. Mistakes are all mine. I'm sorry, but updates will probably be sporadic despite both MsSs and Libra being beloved projects. Characters not mine. No infringement intended, no profit derived.

********************************

**Chapter 3:**

_**Back to present Day:**_

_Katunayaka Intenational Airport, Sri Lanka._

The heat blast through, buffeting and curling its tendrils the moment Methos stepped out of the _AirLanka_ air bus and down the mobile staircase that had attached itself at the mouth of the plane. He peeled off all but a faded old shirt, thankful of his propensity for layers-- London in the throes of a particularly wet, gloomy late August had nothing in common with this distinctive tropical humidity, which seemed to relentlessly seep through all mediums indiscriminately.

Never mind that it was well past sunset and in the middle of the night. Hopefully the weather will have cooled down towards morning, and he'd have a chance to acclimatise his old hide.

The native-speak filtered through the old immortal's hearing as he secured his long abused rucksack and walked alongside families, groups of chattering people towards customs so he'd be able to retrieve his beloved Ivanhoe.

Five years ago he might have been able to cajole into taking his sword-case with chancy paperwork, but with all the heightened security that was indicative of all the hotspot airports, such an attempt would only bring an unhealthy amount of interest, of which he most decidedly *didn't* want.

Once reunited with all of his admittedly meagre belongings he went towards the queues leading up to the departure gates. Methos' _Sinhalese_ was rusty, but it was enough to pick up the gist of conversations being carried on around him.

He'd been careful-- the last trail that had picked him up had been while he was looking for Kori, and knowing the other immortal's diffidence when is came to the watcher organisation, Methos had been surprised at how easily the other woman let him find her. Especially considering he hadn't had many leads to begin with-- Kora hadn't been trying very hard to stay invisible.

Of course it was all part of some Plan of hers. He should have known. Kori never did anything without long, --indecipherable to all but her-- convoluted reasoning behind it.

Long dark brows furrowed together as he considered that. Methos knew that the woman so renowned as _Makeda _by Ethiopian legends, _Saba_ by the Arabs and _Sheba_ by Westerners certainly had very good reasons for staying disappeared and out of the immortal community for so long. They both had. Put aside the fact that they both had over ten and a half millennia of living between the both of them-- Kora had her personal(to paraphrase)-- _demons,_ and one in particular from the past to deal with.

Methos had no intention of meeting up with _that_ nightmare if it could be avoided. He'd had enough of that in Wales during the 11th centaury.

If this was some version of Kori's banner waving, war-crying, he intended to stay far away from Brighton, or wherever the other immortal decided to gather forces. _Innanna_ knows-- (*another* new facet of himself after The-Great-Unravelling) he found himself reverting more to older intonations and curses than usual.

He'd found out first-hand one couldn't run away forever. And he'd tried, so very hard to do so. Only to have a two and a half millennia old piece of unfinished business literarily and metaphorically drop him on his ancient ass --knife in the chest more like-- and catch him utterly blindsided. Not an everyday occurrence.

Arching his neck and cracking it to unkink himself, Methos reached the lime green counter of customs and got 27 year old 'Michael Bensons' passport stamped. He went through the sliding doors, ignoring the numerous porters eyeing him somewhat salaciously for the deemed potential foreign monetary value he comprised.

The key was to avoid direct eye contact. Methos went to the toilets to freshen up before taking the 2-3 hour car journey. He'd booked a flight that would coincide with him arriving around 3am in the morning-- the lull in traffic and the early hours would make for a calmer, much quicker journey. Striding past other stragglers Methos idly moved towards the Departures entrance to see whether his arranged ride to the docks in Colombo had arrived.

Not that the Watchers would expect him to know the in and outs of native South Asia. Adam Pierson wasn't old enough to have the travel know-how. Director Dr Harami, along with Dr Zoll and her tattoo-bearing underlings only had-- as of yet unfounded *_suspicions_* that Pierson was more than he seemed after Kronos came crashing to Seacouver.

His Brothers reunion had certainly caused quite the stir… If it weren't for that Methos would have given Adam Pierson the last few years left him, before having the graduate student coming to a end, with his personal epitaph and a few personal affects situated next to Alexa's grave in Paris.

But oh no…. instead the Organisation had identified him as an neo-immortal who had met his First Death at the hands of Kalas; and being the meek, mild mannered researcher with next to no field experience, had apparently kept quiet out of fear of being ostracized from the Organisation and thus separated from his beloved musty tombs.

Methos had checked, "Adam's" Chronicle stated that after being approached by Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod, he had repeatedly refused help due to the elder immortal's high visibility and reputation for attracting trouble.

According to general Watcher records Pierson had gotten in way over his head when he'd fallen with Koren and his cohorts-- the immortal equivalent of bad crowd mixed with a hefty dose of negative peer pressure. He certainly owed Joe for all that spinning the bluesman had taken part in that particular yarning session, Methos thought ruefully.

Not that certain, select individuals were completely convinced --damn Melanie Hind for following Macleod anyway-- he'd been lucky to get away with just a stern warning to stay out of the Archives now that he'd left the Society-- under the Ruling of him being an 'inexperienced' academic; complete green boy and therefore easy pickings to machinations of an older, morally compromised immortal.

_Older, morally compromised immortal._

The irony alone would kill him off yet. It certainly seemed to have caused Dawson to have some suspicious respiratory complications; the mortal hadn't been able to update him with a straight face. And the amount of snorting, exaggerated choking and sniggering as he tolled out the inopportune happenings to *_poor_* Pierson…..

Prat.

The other man had better start looking after himself, or who knows what sort of, ah 'damage' all that improvised and affected 'street-cum-bar-theatre' would do to his wellbeing.

Stepping out and searching for his ride, he casually looked around until he came across a thirty-something looking man wearing a native cricket team shirt over jeans. The mortal's attention was fixed on the entrance but he glance at Methos as he strolled over.

"Cricket fan?" Methos asked with a small smile and quirked brow as he took in the autographed t-shirt.

The mortal's face stretched into a smile at his passenger-to-be's designated query.

"Ah… sir, here the question would be who *isn't* a cricket fan? Sir'd be Mr Michael Benson then yes? The other man gave the lean, casually dressed foreigner a quick look over. "Am Bandula, and we'll be going to the docks for the ferry, yah?"

Nodding equitably, 'Michael' walked around the white Toyota corolla and opened the door to the passenger seat, dumping his rucksack to the back whilst keeping the bag containing his swordcase. Sliding into front seat Methos fumbled blindly under so to afford himself healthy leg space.

Bandula gave him a wink as he looked at the bag resting between Methos' long legs. "I see that sir is cricket fan too no? The English, they more football fans than cricket nowadays I was thinking."

Giving the other man a glance, Methos shrugged noncommittally. "Oh I don't know, cricket is quite quintessentially *_English_* if not quite as plebeianly popular as our football." he slid down and settled the cricket bag that would have contained wicket poles & balls-- but in reality carried his precious Ivanhoe.

And closed his eyes decidedly. Gods help him from friendly natives.

Chuckling good-naturedly at the white man's aplomb and aloof silent assertion, Bandula set about taking the other to the Docks of Colombo before sunrise.

***************************

_**:Travelling cross-India, Present Day:**_

The first leg of Methos' journey had gone without a hitch, Watcher-shaped and otherwise. He'd lost 'Adam Pierson's' Watcher when he'd been in Brighton looking for Kori and though he'd been briefly spotted in Heathrow --as attested by Kori's teasing him on scaring fellow "passengers"-- an array of miscellaneous tickets including ones to Seacouver, Vancouver and Geneva under Pierson's name, alongside Kori's mischievous diversions was sufficient to ensure that Michael Benson's journey to Colombo, Sri Lanka was voyeur-free.

Arriving at the capital of Kerala in the south of India via ferry, the second leg of Methos' journey had consisted of travelling across to Madurai, up to Madras before crisscrossing the country onto Bombay.

That had been over 2000 miles worth of sub-continental train hopping and had taken him five days and six nights. It had been some time since Methos had travelled India so leisurely, taking in the colourful sights, the writhing mass of humanity and culture that was endemic to its prolific cities.

The last time he'd been anywhere near South Asia had been the last precious months with Alexa, after having helped the highlander with his Dark Quickening, leaving him to the tender care of Rachel.

Even after the mess his life had become after Bordeaux, and the despite the strongest urge he'd had to retreat to the Tibetan Himalayas to lick his wounds and regroup, Methos had hung around-- it was pitiful really, waiting to see whether the tattered remains of their friendship had the chance to heal to some echo of its former bond…

Not that disappearing had been an option of for Adam Pierson at that time, however. His ex-colleagues had been in pandemonium at the discovery of his presence in company of 'Koren' and his likes-- and it was thanks to some extremely fast talking and obfuscation from Joseph that a proverbial witch-hunt in his name was stalled.

Too dangerous. If any a time Methos needed to be no more or less than *exactly* whom mild mannered 'Adam' appeared to be-- then had been it.

Unfortunately the Highlander didn't exactly bring out Pierson's naïve persona, never had-- for some reason he made it difficult for Methos to be anything other than who he was, myriad of contradictions and dichotomies that made up his psyche and all.

Infact, being with the younger immortal made him *more* 'Methos' than he been in centauries, even more so than the times he'd spent with his scattered kin.

_Mac…_ the old immortal's chest clenched. Where was the other man, Methos wondered. He'd looked at Watcher files periodically when the opportunity arose on his cross-subcontinental trek, using one of the back doors remaining into the database-- the last watcher report recorded was of a sighting in Kathmandu but the younger immortal had soon gone to ground and vanished from Watcher-scent.

After Mac had left, Joe had taken over and made arrangements for Richie's final resting place to be by the Highlander's beloved Tessa.

Watchers had been stupefied-- were suffering from metaphorical whiplash; the Highlander had done the inconceivable. Had beheaded one of his own. His student. Joe said that word was that Mac was supposedly suffering from another Dark quickening-- but whom from the Paris Branch seemed be at a somewhat loss at.

Hopefully the letter that He'd sent the Bluesman would make up for the fact that he wasn't there in person, and that the carefully embedded hints on how to deal with Ahriman would help the Scot when he came back. Although, Methos pondered consternated-- Mac might not even come back from wherever he'd disappeared to deal with the demon.

No. To be able to defeat Ahriman the Highlander would have to make peace with himself, unless he wanted to risk irrevocable damage to himself like *he* had when faced with Lil-itu. So, he'd need to come back to Paris to come to terms with himself.

Duncan was already well-trained in the Eastern Arts-- that would help to hone his mental acuity for the fight against the millennial menace.

Methos' first time exposure to *any* form of spiritual, mental and physical schooling had been when he was well over two millennia, by Master Lin Chi and later on his teacher immortal Sun Tzu-- far too late to be of any help in defeating Lil-itu.

Strains of half-understood conversation filtering through to his hearing brought the old immortal out of his deep introspection. A lot of that had been going on. That panic attack at Heathrow had worried him much more than he'd divulged to Kori.

Methos snorted. As if she didn't know. _She probably knows more about me than any other living thing on this earth after this summer._ He'd have to make sure he didn't end up resenting her too much for it.

He *was* vulnerable. And shaky. But much, much better than he'd been in June, when the other immortal had finally decreed that they were as prepared as they could be to perform mental surgery on Methos.

In the immediate days and weeks following, He'd barely been able to lift his head up because of the pain-- physical _and_ mental; as he'd had to effectively re-structure his mind from scratch, face old memories, confront less savourable personas of his, endure all the echoes of heartache, joy and rage he'd experienced over millennia.

No wonder he wasn't quite hundred and one percent.

Huffing at himself self-mockingly Methos stretched out of his cot and peered out his window and into the darkness as the train sped its way north east towards its final destination. He'd past Jabalpur, the midpoint of the second leg to his journey, and now was headed towards west Bengal, and then finally, Calcutta.

Another two thousand odd miles-- that would mean that by the time they arrived at Calcutta he'd been 'roughing-it' for over four thousand miles, and over twelve days. Not bad.

Well, he wasn't _really_ roughing it, native-style; he was in 1st class, and whilst it wasn't exactly decadent and over flowing luxury, it was enough. He had his journals with him, his new shiny walkman, a few good books and texts he'd wanted to spend time on. And he'd gotten reacquainted with Indian beer; -mostly lagers-- the brands Methos had explored were easily brought in bulk from shops without any fuss.

Not to mention traditional Indian rice beer, particularly popular in north-eastern India, where he was heading. 'Intoxicating' it was described. Not dissimilar to Japanese Saki in that it was made of rice, but a *beer* not wine. Apparently nutritious too. He'd leave the _desi sharab _--country liquor-- for later exploration as needed.

Apart from the intermittent drifts of conversations, interposed with laughter and strains of Indian music, the only thing that interrupted the train's background hum and rhythmic tranquillity was when the odd passenger walked past his cabin. His cabin-mate was a soft-spoken university student who was travelling with the rest of her friends, and clearly had no idea how to deal with the tall, silent, male foreigner. She rarely left her friends cabin, and never slept in the other cot, which was fine by him.

The last ten or so days had been almost… idyllic. The train transfers and interminable heat -- that wasn't felt when on the train, his cabin was air conditioned-- and stocking up for food and beer had been the worst of it. Whenever his thoughts crossed to Mac they'd given him a twinge of guilt before his pragmatic nature asserted itself by reasoning that if he couldn't help himself, he'd not be much of an asset for the Highlander anyway.

And some demons, Methos knew, needed to be faced alone.

In any case, the immortal and Watcher free time had been liberating, and given the Ancient time to 'sort things out in his old attic' like advised by his old friend Kora.

Kori. Methos frowned. Now there had been another shock to his system... --there was a lot _that_ going on these days-- he'd been much more emotionally besieged by events that had occurred in Paris, than he'd let on to Joe. The look on Mac's face as he'd offered his katana had struck a chord deeply within him.

There'd been nightmares then, reoccurring nightmares, and as soon as Richie's funeral was over, and it became clear that the Highlander had disappeared, he'd planned on taking a much shorter getaway to India, and maybe decipher what the nightmares meant, to him-- hopefully sort himself out with Ama's help.

And then purely by chance, _and it had to be by chance,_ he reassured himself --he'd been checking up on Sandra's chronicles to see how she was doing, they'd not had the chance to meet in sometime-- when he'd clicked on the list of known and possible/unidentified immortal sightings in Britain on a whim.

And found himself staring at Kora's face.

It had given him a start, and he'd been all for ignoring it, had withstood the temptation for all of three days _--she was dead, was just a look-alike--_ until he'd been practically vibrating with curiosity. So he'd succumbed to the urge to check up on her-- only to come up to a dead end.

The Watcher had only speculated on her being immortal because of the presence of a sword handle he'd glimpsed in her coat while taking it off when getting out of a car to enter the local library in Caernarfon, North-west Wales. After the first few sightings in Wales, she appeared to have dropped off watcher-radar.

Despite the picture not being of best quality, and the chances of it being a false alarm high-- oh but the _*location*_ had been extremely circumspect. Especially to anyone who knew the other ancient. She was being more than obvious. Caernarfon was a place they both remembered well, having been there, and observed the protections woven into the Castle when Edward I started building it.

And Gwynedd-- apart from the fact that Gwynedd was home and neighbour to the Snowdonia mountain range, mountains that covered most of what was once known as _Meirionnydd_-- their Teacher had loved those mountains, and sequestered himself there when the old immortal wanted solitude and space to practise and teach his craft.

Of course there had been the possibility that he'd been reading entirely too much into where the reported sightings were, the personal significance of the names. But he'd decided to investigate, and found that immortal grapevine was circulating the possible continued existence of 'Sheba'-- which had been enough and had him stalling his journey to Asia to look for her first.

Well, he'd found her alright. It wasn't until the moment that Methos had set eyes on her in that herb scented, smoky New Age shop and felt the old familiar resonance of her quickening settle in his bones that he'd truly believed that his old friend was still among the living.

She'd been artfully rearranging Gem-trees alongside beautiful hand embroidered cotton(white)-- fair-trade skirts when he'd stepped into 'Moondust'; and had greeted him warmly with an embrace without missing a beat as if they hadn't not last seen each other over 5 centauries ago.

After observing with quick, keen eyes that Methos was still mid-daze she'd informed the doe-eyed youth by the till to watch the shop for the day before gently manoeuvring him out the tinkling door and towards the park with gentle, deft handling typical to Kori, and legendarily even 'Biblically' reknown of Queen Saba.

Of course, once he'd recovered(on the way to the park), the other had suffered the sharper edge of his tongue. The canny female immortal had seemed to know what it was that Methos was trying to ask of her before he'd fully articulated to himself, nevermind presented to her.

_**:Middle June, Gloucester Rd, Brighton. Post-Ahriman: **_

Brighton had to be one of them more favourable cities in Britain for Methos… despite its high pollution statistics(green as it tries to be) and considerable overpopulation… it was more bohemian in flavour, and appealed to his inner 60's vagabond-- being the country's rainbow capital only helped cultivate that image.

So, later the same afternoon that he'd stumbled, literally-- into Kori's NewAge shop Moondust; the two old reunited friends were settled by one of its many characteristic street café's-- Methos with a cider and Kora with a dainty cup of iced tea. As Kori quietly suggested he stay with her at Peacehaven for the next few days, Methos had found himself agreeing without much resistance.

Trust the other immortal to have settled down in a place called 'Peacehaven'. When they caught the bus en-route to Eastbourne --no car driving for Kori for a mere 30 minute journey-- and they'd walked past the town fringes, from English suburbia and cut westwards through fields to get to a modest farm cottage set by a country road with all its inherent charm intact; Methos had been very much regretting not having rehired a car-- even one of those streetcars so popularly used by the purportedly discerning tourist.

His companion on the other hand seemed to have thrived on the long trek, Methos noted snarkily, wiping off fine sheen of sweat off his face carelessly with the bottom of his shirt.

Settled in the driveway sweet as you please, was a quaint little Audi glinting merrily in the afternoon sun. Methos gave the other immortal a sour look which she returned with an unrepentant look of innocence achieved only by the truly guilty, and crossed the gravel drive to open the front door.

*******************

The place had definite signs of being inhabited by Kora, as attested by the abundance of indoor plants, hanging crystals and rune-carved pottery. It made a startling contrast with the traditional low cottage ceilings and black beams, the more alternate furniture and pretty rugs on no-nonsense stone and wooden floors-- gave a definite exotic flavour without detracting from the cottage's rustic charm.

As days passed with Methos settling down, Kori showed no signs of approaching the reason as to why Methos was actually at her home, anymore than what they'd talked about that first day about her disappearance for the past half millennium.

Instead they reminisced about days long past gone, mutual friends, lovers, even some old enemies fondly. She didn't even leave for that hippie store much either, seemingly happy to let Methos have reign over the house while she puttered around the back garden that over-looked stretches of fields.

So it happened that Methos ended up using the little Audi often in those first few weeks, exploring the South Downs in all their glory, seeing as spring had just loosened its grasp into burnishing summer.

Methos, lulled by trust and quiet into a sense of complacency, should have seen all of it for the subtle, gentle psychobabble that it was. By the beginning of the third week Kori was skilfully probing at Methos' younger, pre-Horseman years, and if once or twice the old immortal's sense of preservation gave minute spasms whenever these conversations came up-- he ignored them with a sense of disengagement that had him hazily wondering and speculating that Kora was upto her usual parlour tricks…

Only to find that the thought strangely didn't infuriate as much as he'd thought it would.

_**tbc**_

A/N**:**

_**Caernarfon Castle**_: probably the most famous castle in Wales. Built the 1200's- a castle in Wales which is tourist attraction not only for the time it was built, but for remainly _strangely_ unscathed by time's natural erosion)

The places in Wales all actually do exist, and are richly entwined with Arthurian legends and tales & myths of Merlin.


End file.
